


just keep your head above

by tobeconvincedoflove



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Eating Disorders, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Javert Is Grantaire's Dad, Lots of Angst, M/M, Oh um, Panic Attacks, he and montparnasse are bffs, kind of, shocking, um it's basically enjolras messes up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 21:00:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4114798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras messes up. And then he messes up even more trying to fix it.</p>
<p>(Or, Enjorlas plays high school soccer and may or may not be a drug dealer.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	just keep your head above

Enjolras should have known things would fall apart after a good day like that. That’s how it’s supposed to happen, right? Everything’s normal and then suddenly something comes in and fucks it up. Enjolras doesn’t think this counts because the only thing that fucks it up is Enjolras himself.

“Hey. You know I will tell your coach if you don’t eat your lunch,” Courfeyrac jabs, and Enjolras smiles as he picks up his banana. 

“It’s not a good week to piss off Coach. We play Central next Friday and he’s already in full-on attack mode,” Enjolras responds, shuddering. They have a rule (across both the girls’ and boys’ teams) that if you don’t eat three meals a day you can’t practice that day (or the next, if it was dinner) and it’s strictly enforced. Then the next day you’re in practice… the sprint punishment for missing practice is terrible. 

“Does that mean you have a two-a-day on Saturday?” Combeferre asks, and Enjolras just nods. Combeferre gives him his signature look, the one that means Enjolras better keep his shit together and get his homework done, but he’s saved from the evil eye by his boyfriend plopping down at their table. 

“It’s been two months since my dad has seen you at work. Solid work,” Grantaire praises, and Enjolras pales. Javert has hated Enjolras long before Grantaire crashed into his life; his stints in holding cells were more frequent when he worked with Montparnasse (for the Thernadiers). He’s still there, because Montparnasse occasionally needs help, and Enjolras is good at hitting things. And kicking things (that aren’t soccer balls). Honestly, he’s not proud of it, but he got into it deep in middle school and it’s easy money. 

He’s not leaving ‘Parnasse alone in this shit, either. That’s really the reason why he still helps out anymore (he knows Thernadier probably won’t come after him). They’ve been partners in crime since pre-K; Montparnasse just doesn’t have the rich as fuck parents or kind grandparents that Enjolras has. He’s stuck until graduation, which isn’t for another year, so Enjolras is stuck with him. 

What Courfeyrac and Combeferre and Grantaire and Coach and Javert and Gramps don’t know won’t hurt them. They know he gets into fights, but they think he’s left the Thernadiers in the dust. (Javert and Grantaire don’t even really know that he ever ran with the Thernadiers. They came to town only three months or so after.) 

“It’s because it’s soccer season. I’m too tired to do anything. I closed up the shop last night and then fell asleep at one of the tables,” Enjolras says, referencing his grandparent’s ice cream shop/bakery. 

“Maybe you should stop closing during season then,” Grantaire suggests gently, and Enjolras shakes his head. They already do much and deal with too much of Enjolras’s shit. They’re getting older and if it means they get an extra few hours of sleep, Enjolras will close until the end of time. 

“Don’t even engage in that battle, R. You’ll never win,” Courfeyrac says, still carefully watching Enjolras work his way through the peanut-butter sandwich. “What time is the game next Friday, though? I’ll probably take my sisters.” 

“Seven. It’s a red-out, so make sure you, you know, wear red.” Enjolras responds, looking down. “According to Gramps, Dad is going to be in town. He’s going.” 

“Shit. My dad’s going, too. More father-son bonding, curtesy of you sneaking out of my window last week,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras face pales. He hates having to deal with Javert, but the thought of him and his father at the same place at the same time is terrifying. 

“How the fuck does he decide punishments?” Combeferre sounds amused, and Grantaire gives his best shit-eating grin. 

“Literally no punishment has worked. And this one won’t, either. A little bonding time never hurt anyone.” With that, Enjolras gives R a quick peck on the cheek before heading off to his next class.

:: ::

“Close up. We’ve got a job.” Enjolras is wiping down tables, trying to ignore how sore his entire body is. Being a midfielder sucks sometimes, especially when the defense is doing a particularly shitty job and they all sprint as a punishment.

“Does it have to be tonight? There’s a huge AP U.S. History test tomorrow, and I haven’t—“ 

“Your dyslexic ass has been too tired to do the reading.” ‘Parnasse sighs, running a hand through his dark, messy hair. Shit. If Montparnasse’s hair is messy, the world is about to end. Or the Thernadiers are doing unspeakable things. 

“What’s going on? Why is it this desperate?” Enjolras looks up, into those dark eyes he’s known for years, and they’re blown wide with fear. 

“They’re going to start going into worse things if they don’t get more cash quickly. I don’t know if it’s meth or humans or what, but it’s not good. I can’t get involved in that, E. I’m trying to get out of it, I swear, but I can’t get in deeper.” That’s all it takes before Enjolras shoves a pastry at Montparnasse and quickly locks up. 

“Congratulations, asshole. You get to read the textbook to me on the way,” Enjolras says with false cheeriness, before dragging a rag over the tables and hastily locking up. “If I have to drag Gramps out of bed for bail again, I’m going to kill you.” 

“We don’t want Javert involved in this,” Montparnasse says darkly, getting into the passenger side of his shitty car. “So there’s a bunch of teenagers who haven’t been paying up. Luckily, most of them are all getting high in the same place tonight. They’re even dumb enough to do it under the Brady Street Bridge.” 

“What am I here for?” Enjolras just asks, praying to whatever is up there that this isn’t going to fuck everything up. 

“A bunch of them are on the wrestling team, and they’re not pleasant when they’re high. But you box, and are, quite frankly, more than a match for them. I don’t box, and I don’t plan on ever trying it. But I also don’t want my face smashed in.” With a sigh after he gets no reply, Montparnasse opens up the huge history textbook.

:: ::

To be fair, it had gone to shit long before the sirens had cut into the fight. Montparnasse was completely right about it getting ugly, and Enjolras has definitely busted up one of his hands on one of the thug’s faces, but at least they’ve gotten most of the cash Montparnasse needs. One of the ones is holding his arms back while the other punches his stomach, but he only gets in two or three before Enjolras bucks up and kicks him in the face. From there, Enjolras can’t tell what’s happening until the sound pierces through the sounds of grunts.

“Get out, ‘Parnasse. You can’t afford this tonight.” Enjolras spits, looking to his friend. Thernadier will kill Montparnasse if it’s as bad as he thinks it is.

“How did you—“ 

“Just go!” Enjolras yells, and watches him leave before a fist takes him by surprise. It’s a face shot that has Enjolras stumbling, but he just recovers and throws himself back into the fray until there’s a cop pulling him back and shoving his face against a wall. Well, that’s fucking rude. (And painful.) 

“Are you high?” The voice orders and Enjolras thanks whatever’s up there that it’s not Javert. 

“No. They are,” he gets out, ignoring the soreness in his arms and hands as they’re jerked into handcuffs. He can already feel his face bruising, and having it grind against a wall is doing fuck all to help. 

“Drop the rest off at their houses and be sure to tell the parents; they’ll punish them better than we can, with the budget problems. It would be their first offense. But I recognize this one, so we’re taking him in.” Shit. As the cop manhandling Enjolras turns him around, Enjolras finds himself face to face (well, face to chest, but that’s irrelevant) with Javert. But he can’t even bring himself to look the detective in the eyes. Why he’s out doing patrol is anyone’s guess, but it’s really unlucky all around. 

“Don’t call them,” he says as strongly as he can, glaring at his boyfriend’s father. “I’ll spend the night in a holding cell if it means you don’t call them.” 

“Hello to you, too, Enjolras. At least you’re trying to be pleasant tonight,” is all Javert says as the other officer guides (shoves) him into the back of the squad car. Enjolras winces at the movements, something Javert doesn’t miss. 

Fuck. He has to kiss ass, and he knows it, if he doesn’t want Gramps to get dragged down to the station tonight.

“Please, Javert. I know it’s not a set protocol to call, and they’re asleep and—“ Enjolras rambles, wiping the blood from his nose with the shoulder of his shirt. 

“You should have thought of that before you got into a fight with a bunch of _high_ delinquents, Adam.” Javert spits out Enjolras’s first name like it’s poison, but now Enjolras is leaning forward in the seat.

“This isn’t my grandparents’ fault, though. Punish me, or the jocks, or whatever, but don’t do it to a sixty-something year-old couple. They’re _tired_ , and it’s not fair. I know that I screwed up, but—“ Enjolras is desperate.

“He’s got a point,” the other officer points out, and Enjolras almost laughs, but it turns into a problem as he spits more blood from his mouth.

“Fine. But I can’t promise you I’m not telling Grantaire, or your grandparents tomorrow, or your coach.” Javert’s voice is as cold as ever, but Enjolras just sits back in the car in relief, content to be silent as the car makes its way back to the station. Until he sighs and pulls out the radio. “Make sure Rick is there; we need him to check out a kid we’re bringing in.” There’s a pause for a question Enjolras can’t hear. “Yes, it is Enjolras.” 

Enjolras doesn’t remember just how bad of a situation this is until they’re taking his phone, lighter (he doesn’t use it, but Montparnasse does and it’s always better if Enjolras has it), wallet, and ID lanyard out of his pockets and shoving them into his backpack. At least they send him into the normal holding cell. It’s not just a fight… Enjolras is caught up in the clusterfuck of their city’s drug scene. Even Javert knows this is different. Fuck.

His coach is going to be pissed, Grantaire’s going to tell everyone which is going to be a fucking bloodbath once Combeferre knows, and Gramps and Nana… shit. They don’t deserve this. 

Oh, and he’s definitely going to fail that history test.

:: ::

“Congratulations, you’re already in trouble. Grantaire is here to take you to school.” Javert’s voice is as harsh as the morning light. Enjolras has a nasty headache to match the bruises on his face and his stomach and hands hurt like a bitch, but Rick had said he didn’t have concussion, so there’s that. There’s always a silver lining.

“What about my grandparents?” Enjolras croaks, pulling himself off of the cot and turning around complacently so Javert can re-cuff his hands, because protocol. Luckily, they don’t have a fuckton of money to enforce drug laws, otherwise Enjolras (and the wrestlers, for that matter) would be in so much deeper shit than occasional overnight stints at the station. He’s lead back out to the front, where Javert unlocks the cuffs and Enjolras can’t look his boyfriend in the eye.

“I just called them. And I brought you breakfast, Dad.” Well, at least that stone-cold voice is genetic. “Come on, Enjolras. We have to stop at your house to get your school stuff.” 

Quietly, Enjolras follows Grantaire out the door. They don’t talk in the car, and it’s a tense silence that has Enjolras’s hands shaking. It builds and builds and builds like the strength of the throbbing of the _entire right fucking half of his face_. 

“I know I fucked up.” Enjolras voice shakes, and he sees Grantaire’s hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that the knuckles are white. 

“Yeah, you did. Jesus, it had to be when Dad was working?” Grantaire’s voice is cold. “You were fighting with a bunch of high kids. Over money. That’s not a good sign, E, and neither is the black eye… that takes up half of your goddamn face.”

“I know I fucked up,” Enjolras repeats. “I’m sorry.” 

“Why did you do it? I’ve been telling him all of these great things, because gods forbid I want him to _like_ my boyfriend and then you go and pull shit like this? Less than two weeks before the game against Central?” Grantaire’s green eyes pierce Enjolras’s grey ones, but Enjolras just looks at his hands. 

“Montparnasse, R. He was… you didn’t want to see him the way he was last night. He was a mess and I said I wasn’t going to get involved but I had to.” Enjolras explains as they pull into his driveway. 

“Dammit, Enjolras. Then why wasn’t he arrested, too?” Grantaire follows Enjolras through the door, as he just shakes his head. There, waiting, are both of his guardians. 

It’s already a shitty day.

:: ::

Enjolras takes a soccer ball to the half of his face already swollen and a lovely shade of purplish-black. Ironically, he isn’t even allowed to play today; instead, he gets to run, and get hit by stray balls he’s not paying attention to. Coach can’t afford to pull him with the rival game so close, but he’s fucking pissed.

Everyone’s pissed and no one listens and Enjolras hates that he let this happen. 

He’s light-headed because he hasn’t eaten since that apple Rick gave him at about midnight, and he can’t stop hearing Combeferre as he runs and runs and runs. _Why do you always fucking do this? You get something good and then you fuck it up. I’m done._ They’re all done. Bahorel refuses to spar with him, Jehan hasn’t said a word to him all of practice, Grantaire has avoided him ever since they got to school, and so have all of the others. And Combeferre and Courfeyrac… they know. They know everything, have talked to Montparnasse, and Enjolras is so, so fucked, because they’re telling Nana and Gramps. 

“Pick it up!” Coach screams, and Enjolras wipes the sweat from his face that’s mixing with the tears and runs faster. Maybe if his stomach hurts enough from the effort of crying against the bruises he won’t hear Courfeyrac’s disappointment and Combeferre’s anger worming their way through his veins and suffocating his heart. 

“How did that history test go?” one of his teammates whispers as he runs past, and Enjolras just shakes his head. He didn’t even get halfway through that test. 

So Enjolras tries to lose himself as he takes another lap around the track. And then another. If he can just put one foot in front of another, maybe it’ll work in reverse, too, and he go back and undo last night. 

“HEY! I SAID YOU’RE DONE!” Coach screams, forcing Enjolras back into his body. So Enjolras stops, only realizing just how hard he’s breathing. “Go see Joly.” Coach is referring to the school’s sports medicine guy/school nurse and Enjolras just nods, shaking the sweat out of his hair. His voice isn’t harsh, and Enjolras knows he’s already redeemed himself in one person’s eyes.

Yeah, the others aren’t going to make it as easy. Enjolras would take the hour and a half long run over what’s waiting for him at home. He has to close up for the next month (which is nothing), but he also has to do all of the shop’s dishes and call before he’s leaving. 

So Enjolras drags his ass to the training room, trying to ignore how dead his entire body feels and how tired he is. Shockingly, Joly is waiting without any of the volleyball, tennis, or cross country kids. Enjolras knows Courfeyrac’s been having foot trouble during cross, so that in itself is the gods throwing Enjolras a bone. 

“Oh my. Take a seat, Adam.” Joly says immediately, and Enjolras does, letting his head droop and be held up by his hands. Until Joly presses a water bottle in his hand and Enjolras downs the thing (well, it’s a mix of pouring it on his face and drinking, but still.) 

“I’m fine. I don’t know why Coach sent me,” Enjolras says, struggling to meet Joly’s eyes. The twenty-something med student just grabs Enjolras’s hands and starts bandaging them like Enjolras has to sometimes do after boxing. Then he gets Enjolras to take off his shirt and prods at those bruises for a while, all while reminding Enjolras to drink and eat and all of that jazz. When he forces Enjolras to do an ice bath, Enjolras almost refuses. 

“You ran a little over thirteen miles, Enjolras. You need to take it easy tonight, and make sure to stay hydrated. Watch the bruises and let me know how awful you’re feeling before practice tomorrow. Because you are going to feel awful. If you need the day off, it will happen.” 

“Thanks, Joly. I’ll be okay,” Enjolras says quietly, slowly raising himself out of the ice bath. 

“I mean it. Whatever’s going on, you can’t do what I know you’ll do. Or it’ll end like it does every time—with you passing out from exhaustion.” Enjolras just ignores the medical trainer, slinging his bag over his shoulder and starting the short walk to his grandparents’ store. Normally, he’d stop at home for dinner, but even though he’s hungry, Enjolras doesn’t know if he’ll be able to bring himself to eat. 

When he gets there, he quietly pushes open the door, not at all surprised to see his grandfather sitting down at a table, waiting. 

“You’re running late,” he says, and Enjolras just slowly makes his way to the back to drop his stuff. 

“I had to see Joly after practice. Ran thirteen miles as punishment,” he explains, dropping into the chair across the table. 

“Your dinner is in the back most fridge,” Gramps says, and Enjolras just nods. “You know, kid, we’re going to have to talk about last night some time. And C-squared dropped in about an hour ago.” 

“I know.” Enjolras’s voice shakes, and he hates how this feels. He’s used to disappointing his friends and everyone else, but when it’s Gramps he just wants to crawl into the freezer in the back and die. He can be scary and unapologetic with almost anyone (Javert especially), but not his grandpa. The man who’s raised him since he was nine and his parents decided to go back to their global positions.

“You can’t keep ruining everything you’ve worked for. I know you’re worried about Montparnasse, but you can’t keep going back to the Thernadiers… you’ll get stuck again. You’ve got some good things going for you now—Grantaire and your friends and soccer and boxing—but you’ll lose it all if you keep working for them. You need to stop sabotaging yourself, Adam… let yourself keep the good things.” Gramps’s voice is slow and tired, and Enjolras can’t help the tears that slip down his face. 

“I think I’ve already lost them. They’re so angry, Gramps.” Enjolras confesses, and though he knows Gramps is angry, too, at least he’s talking to Enjolras. 

“Give them time. You’ve gotten yourself out of worse, and no matter how bad of a slip-up this was, you’ll find your way back. I’ve got to get home to your grandmother, but make sure you do the dishes and eat your dinner.” With that, Gramps stands up, and Enjolras can’t help but hug him, as tightly as he can without hurting him. “Try to get your homework done between rushes of people.” 

“Okay, Gramps.” Then, Enjolras is alone in the shop. 

He doesn’t touch the food in the fridge, not with the guilt swirling around in his stomach.

:: ::

The rest of that week, everyone avoids Enjolras (even Montparnasse hasn’t appeared), and it’s fine. Enjolras did fail the history test, but the teacher’s given him the opportunity to redo it next Friday, and Enjolras isn’t going to complain. Even if it is the day of three other tests. He has been working through lunch in the library, or going down to the gym to work on boxing, and then spending most of the night after practice and work doing the same thing. And it’s not like he’s hungry; every time he looks up and sees Combeferre or Courfeyrac or someone any appetite he’d had disappears under the guilt.

But after the two practices on Saturday, Enjolras is tired. He’s about to crash until Sunday is almost over (that he’s sure of), but that’s when Montparnasse decides to reappear. 

“Where the fuck have you been?” Enjolras asks, angrily swiping the rag he’s been using to clean tables at his friend’s face. 

“Laying low. They’re not… it’s not enough, E. We need to get more money, fast.” Montparnasse’s voice is as emotional as it can be (in reality, it’s just void of sarcasm) and Enjolras sighs. “Your face is fucked up, by the way.”

“Yeah. My entire life is kind of shit show right now, actually. Because of our last excursion,” Enjolras bites back, and Montparnasse pats his head. 

“Down, boy. You know you’re going to help, anyway.” It’s Montparnasse’s signature shit-eating grin that makes Enjolras want to punch him. More so than normal. 

“They know I’m involved. Do you know how fucking hard I worked to get out of this, to get them to trust me? And now Combeferre and Courfeyrac and Grantaire and everyone won’t talk to me and I had two practices today and so many tests next week and I don’t know what’s going to happen? And if I get arrested again Javert’s not going to let me go with a night in a holding cell!” Enjolras unloads, fists clenching the rag so hard that his knuckles are white. 

“Find your chill, E,” Montparnasse says coldly, but his fingers are gentle as they work to pry the poor rag from Enjolras’s death grip. “Nerd man and Mr. Sunshine aren’t going to be able to stay mad long—anyone who manhandles your sorry ass out of a test because you’re stubborn and can’t admit you’re sick isn’t just going to pack up and leave. And I doubt R will, either, and if he does I’ll egg his stupid car myself.” There’s a pause, and Montparnasse grins evilly. “And you’ve still got good ‘ole ‘Parnasse.” That’s as close as Enjolras can get to comfort with Montparnasse, so he just accepts the one-armed hug. 

“I will kick your ass if I get arrested again.” 

“And I’ll kick anyone’s ass at school who’s treating you like shit. Let’s go, drama queen.”

:: ::

Enjolras goes to bed with a whole new set of bruises, but thankfully in his own bed. They’re meeting again on Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday to try to stop the Thernadiers through appeasement, so Enjolras just has to hope he can keep his bitching to a minimum and live through the week.

But he doesn’t account for the dreams. 

_”Dude, you’re staring at the board like you’re trying to make it explode.” Looking to his left, Enjolras sees the face that he’s been hearing about. It’s only a few weeks into freshman year, and they already know this kid is going to be valedictorian. And Enjolras can’t even figure out what the board is saying._

_“I’m just having trouble seeing the notes, is all,” Enjolras lies, turning his head back to his notebook._

_“The teacher’s handwriting is shit. If you want, I’ll copy my notes for you.” It’s said with a smile, and Enjolras knows it’s not just because everyone there knows how stupid Enjolras is. This kid isn’t doing anything out of pity. “In exchange for your Algebra II help, occasionally.”_

_Math is the one class Enjolras has ever had an A in, even when he spent every night doing stuff for the Thernadiers._

_“Deal. I’m Enjolras, by the way.”_

_“Combeferre.”_

_“You’re going to the nurse.” Enjolras looks up from his world history homework, and his headache worsens with the movement._

_“I’m fine, Courfeyrac. The day’s almost over, anyway,” he brushes off, trying to read his friend’s face._

_“Mierda,” Courfeyrac says, before putting a hand on his friend’s forehead. “And it’s only second period.”_

_“It’s definitely not,” Enjolras croaks, trying to ignore how good his friend’s cool hand feels against his skin. “It’s at least fifth. And I can’t… it’s the last practice before the state tournament.”_

_“Remember what happened the last time you tried to make it through the day? You had to be taken to the hospital because you had pneumonia. I, for one, don’t want to experience that again,” he sasses, but gently tugs Enjolras so that he’s standing up. “Come on. If you’re good Joly will give you a lollipop and then you can go home and sleep.”_

_“You suck, Courfeyrac. And I gotta go to class. ‘Specially Spanish,” Enjolras gets out, even though he knows his words are becoming less clear the more tired he gets._

_“That’s just because the hot new kid is in Spanish. We’re going to the nurse. Or Combeferre will have my head.”_

_“He wouldn’t kill you. You’re too pretty. That’s what he says, anyway.”_

_“What a nerd.”_

_“But he’s your nerd.”_

_“No more talking. You’re far too adorable when you’re sick and it’s not fair.”_

_“You mean it’s not Combe- **fair**.”_

_“Shut up, you ridiculous human.”_

_“Come on, my dad’s going to be home soon.” Grantaire gasps out, breaking off the kiss. Enjolras wants to be mad about that, he really does, but it’s hard when Grantaire’s eyes look so pretty and his hair is this messy from Enjolras’s wandering hands._

_“I don’t care,” Enjolras murmurs, his lips leaving a trail that goes from his ear down to his stomach. “You look too beautiful. And I want to—“_

_Grantaire’s thumb brushes Enjolras’s cheek, and their eyes meet for a second before their lips crash together again and Grantaire’s fingers knot themselves in Enjolras’s hair. It’s sweet and strong and Enjolras can smell Grantaire’s deodorant and oh my gods, he doesn’t want this to end. He’s just about to come up for air when the door bangs open._

_“Grantaire, what—“ Immediately, Enjolras springs apart, before he realizes who Grantaire’s father is._

_“Your dad is Javert?” Enjolras squeaks, looking from his boyfriend to Javert and back again._

_“YOU’RE DATING ENJOLRAS?” Javert booms, watching as Enjolras hastily pulls his shirt on, before standing up to go head-to-head with the detective._

_“What’s wrong with that?” he challenges, his muscles going tight even as Grantaire’s hand is on his arm._

_“Calm down, Dad. You, too, E,” he says, his voice cold even though his eyes are blown wide._

_“I will not!” Javert starts pacing. “You are not associating yourself with this… this miscreant!” Enjolras snorts, but that just fuels Javert and he turns on the blond. “You are not good enough for—“_

_“Believe it or not, I can decide what I want for myself, thanks,” Grantaire cuts in, glaring at his father. “And he is definitely ‘good enough’ for me. But I need one of you to calm down and explain why there’s a soap opera over this.”_

_“I get arrested a lot. Less than I used to, but fights happen,” Enjolras explains with a shrug. “Holding Cell Three is my favorite.”_

_Grantaire just laughs, because this is what his life has become._

_“You’re the kid Dad is always complaining about. This is priceless.”_

_Enjolras just wants to kiss him right then and there. It’s the best reaction he could have hoped for._

 

When Enjolras wakes up again, he just wants to talk to his friends again. He needs a hug from Courfeyrac, and Combeferre, and he just wants to kiss Grantaire again. But his hips are bruised and his lips are bloody and he understands now why none of them want to touch him.

:: ::

Luckily, his friends don’t hate him so much that they’ve actually told Coach he’s been skipping lunch (he just isn’t hungry. He’s tired even though he can’t ever sleep after the dreams but he’s just not hungry), but when he tries to approach Grantaire he takes one look at Enjolras’s newly bruised cheekbone and walks away.

But then Enjolras is at the boxing center of the local gym before school, and suddenly Bahorel is holding the bag as Enjolras punches and kicks the crap out of it. He doesn’t talk, just keeps the bag steady until Enjolras is bent over, panting and trying to ignore the blood seeping out of the wrap he does on his hands. 

“I think you’re done for the day, man,” Bahorel says, as Enjolras tries to sit down gracefully. He’s crouching to be at his friend’s level, and he looks concerned. 

“I can go again,” Enjolras croaks, his head in his hands. “Do you want to spar?” 

“You’re no match for me when you’re not dead on your feet, young Rooster,” Bahorel says, using his nickname for the blond. He was a senior when Enjolras was a freshman, and he’s honestly the one who taught Enjolras how to fight efficiently. Now, he works for the city, but still boxes with Enjolras. 

“I’ve beaten you before.” Enjolras shoots back, even as Bahorel sits down next to him. 

“You’ve got the Central game this week, yeah?” Bahorel asks, and Enjolras nods. “Then what the fuck are you doing messing around here?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” is all Enjolras offers. 

“Maybe you should. Look, I know you fucked up and all that jazz, but this isn’t the way to fix it.” Enjolras doesn’t respond. “I’m friends with Joly, too. I can let him know what’s going on.” 

“Don’t.” 

With a sigh, Bahorel stands up, his bun almost falling out in the process, but then he offers Enjolras a hand. 

Because he’s not completely stupid, Enjolras accepts.

:: ::

“Adam? Have you been here all night?” Somehow, his grandmother’s voice breaks through the haze. The last time Enjolras looked at the clock was two in the morning and he said he was going to go to bed after he finished the history reading. Apparently, because even his dyslexia is pissy with him, it’s taken four hours and he’s not even done yet.

“No, Nana,” he tries to lie, even as she sits down at the table across from him. “I just got up early to finish the reading.” 

“You’re even worse of a liar than your grandfather, Adam.” His grandmother’s voice has that unique sass that can only come from a sixty-year-old Jewish lady, and it makes him chuckle a little. 

“I’m sorry, Nana. I just lost track of time… I have to retake this history test, and it’s… it’s hard to read the book, lately,” Enjolras explains, standing up to start making his grandmother breakfast before she goes to open the shop. 

“You sit right back down. I’m the one who’s making breakfast today, and then you’re going to go sleep. Your father flies in tonight and we all know you’re not going to sleep when he’s here breathing down your neck,” she orders, and the strength of her voice forces Enjolras to obey.

“I really can’t… I have school and practice and I can’t with the game so close—“ 

“Too bad. If you’re good, I’ll wake you up so that you can go to school later.” 

Enjolras feels his heart flood with love for this strict, wonderful old woman he gets to call his grandmother.

:: ::

The rest helps, but Enjolras is blinking back dots at the edge of his vision at the end of practice. And he thinks he’s been hallucinating that Grantaire is there. Which is bad, because it’s the day before the game and he really doesn’t want to pass out and fuck up his chances of playing.

Nope. That’s not a hallucination. 

“We need to talk.” It’s four words, and Grantaire’s arms are crossed and he’s still in his ballet tights and Enjolras just nods and stops his trek to the changing room. 

“Okay.” Enjolras’s voice is hoarse, and he just slowly follows Grantaire to one of the coves of lockers. 

“First of all, you look like shit. Combeferre has been about one nudge away from telling your coach on you for about four days now, so I’d at least pretend to give a fuck, and—“ Shit. Grantaire sounds angry.

“I’m fine, R.” The words force one of the muscles in Grantaire’s jaw to pop.

“Yeah, and you being ‘fine’ is why you’ve been getting into a fuckton of fights.” There’s a pause. “No, that’s now what I wanted to talk about. I wanted to talk about what the fuck happened last week, why your two best friends are so pissed off they can’t even talk to you.” 

“To be fair, you’re pissed off, too,” Enjolras points out, wincing as he bends over to start untying his soccer cleats. Everything is past the point of sore and he can’t wait until this week is over. 

“Yeah. You’re not helping. What is such a big deal that your best friends, or your drug dealer kindergarten pal, for that matter, can’t tell me?” Grantaire’s words cut deep into Enjolras. 

“It’s honestly not you. I couldn’t tell you because of Javert, and they couldn’t tell you because I don’t want him to know, but if you know that ‘Parnasse is with the Thernadiers…” Enjolras admits, and watches as Grantaire goes pale. 

“What the fuck? Enjolras… now I’m pretty goddamn scared.” It’s true; Enjolras can hear his voice shaking. 

“Dammit, R. You already know what’s going on. You already know that I get into a crapton of fights, but now Combeferre is pissed as hell because he knows Montparnasse and those stoner wrestlers were involved. Put the pieces together!” Enjolras gets out. He’s so fucking sick of Grantaire pretending for his sake that he doesn’t know. 

“You work with Montparnasse. Enjolras, if my dad—“

“ _Used to_. I normally don’t, it’s just there’s a lot going on, and if I didn’t get that money then they’d turn to worse stuff,” Enjolras explains. “I got out of it freshman year, but now Combeferre and them think I’ve gone back. I haven’t… I just never fully left?” 

“That doesn’t change a damn thing. My dad isn’t going to accept that as good enough. I don’t accept that as good enough. You’re involved in drug trafficking, Enjolras… that’s enough to send you to prison.” Grantaire’s running a hand through his messy hair, and Enjolras just stares at it, unable to meet his boyfriend’s eyes.

“I’m trying to fix it, R. Montparnasse is trying to fix it.” It’s one of Enjolras’s last lines of defense. 

“And what happens if you don’t? What happens if the Thernadiers do what they want anyways and you and Montparnasse take the fall for this,” he argues, but Enjolras has to take a few seconds to blink his vision back into focus. 

“I don’t know. We haven’t thought that far,” Enjolras confesses, as Grantaire puts his hands on Enjolras’s shoulders, all but holding him up against the aluminum lockers. “I’m just trying to get through the tests and game tomorrow, R.” 

“That’s what I thought. Just don’t let my dad catch you. Or yours, for that matter, considering he flies in today.” Enjolras forgets that Grantaire knows… has it only been a week since they’ve talked? 

“Okay. Grantaire… are we going to be okay?” Enjolras stutters out, but then Grantaire is gone. 

Enjolras is so fucked.

:: ::

When Enjolras sneaks into the house late that night, uneasy on his feet but knowing he has work to do, he hobbles straight to the fridge. Unsurprisingly, nothing catches his eye, his stomach twisting guiltily as he elects to just grab the carton of apple juice and take a swig, before digging for an ice pack. When he turns around, his father is sitting at the kitchen table, just watching.

“Where were you?” Enjolras’s dad’s voice is cold, and Enjolras does his best to hide his still-bleeding nose behind a smile. “I’ve been waiting up for hours.” 

“You shouldn’t’ve.” Enjolras sits down at the table, pressing the ice to his face and facing his father. “I’m just going to do homework now.” 

“You closed the shop four hours ago. And I know about what happened—“ 

“That’s shocking.” Enjolras’s voice is so cold it freezes his dad in his tracks. “Actually, no it’s not. Of course you would hear about that and not how well I’ve been doing this soccer season, or that I’m actually passing all of my classes. Or, was, but that’s irrelevant.” 

“I thought we were done with this shit, Enjolras. I thought you’d finally cut that street rat out of your life,” he fires back, raising his voice. Enjolras, however, lowers his.

“First, quiet down. Gramps and Nana are sleeping, and you’re a guest in their house. And don’t you dare call Montparnasse a street rat.” His voice is dangerously quiet. “Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be in Cairo or something?” 

“I came to check up on you, to see the game against Central. Your mother wanted me to—“

“Bullshit. I haven’t seen Mom in two years. But do what you want. I have three tests tomorrow and I need to study,” Enjolras says, grabbing his knapsack from where he had left it that afternoon after… after Grantaire. 

“You need to go to sleep. And eat something,” his father orders, standing up and making his way to the fridge. He’s not in one of his custom-tailored suits, anymore, but the tie and button-down are still there. “Or do you want your coach to pull you from the game?”

“Look, I know you’re trying to be parental, but you’re not my father. That’s been Gramps for years,” Enjolras says, and it’s enough to get his dad to just leave the room, but not before he drops the unheated plate of food right next to Enjolras. 

Fuck him. Fuck him for thinking he can come in and suddenly play father whenever he wants. Fuck everything.

:: ::

“Do you want to know how you did?” It’s the period before the end of the day, and it takes Enjolras longer than it should to recognize his history teacher. The words sat fucking still for once and this time, Enjolras finishes. So, blinking away the dizziness, Enjolras nods.

“You got a B+. Congratulations.” Smiling, Enjolras lets the rest of the day fade into a blur.

He’s really not sure what’s going on anymore.

:: ::

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t bench your ass tonight.” Enjolras watches his coach’s face after his conversation with Combeferre. Looks like his friend (is he his friend anymore?) did indeed snap and tattled on Enjolras.

“Because I ran the thirteen miles to play in this game. Because I’ve been working my ass off all week in practice. Because Combeferre’s overreacting,” Enjolras says, looking his coach square in the face. “Because I’ll take whatever punishment you give me after tonight. Because the reason I didn’t follow your rule was so that I could study for tests so my grades were high enough to play.” 

“Okay,” his coach says, swallowing roughly. “That’s a lot of reasons.” There’s a moment when Enjolras just looks at Coach’s face, and tries not to think about everything else going on in his life. Will Grantaire tell Javert what’s going on? Will his dad find out he’s dating Grantaire? Why did he lose so much time today? Will Montparnasse show? Is everything that Montparnasse and Enjolras did this week going to be enough?

“I need to play this game, Coach,” Enjolras confesses, letting himself bare his soul to the man. “My dad’s here.” 

“I shouldn’t. You look like you can barely stand, Adam,” Coach says, rubbing at his scruff with his hand. “I can’t let you play.” 

“Please.” Enjolras wishes he is above groveling, but he’s not. This is the one thing he can do right—he knows all of his friends are out there, waiting to see if Enjolras can fuck this up, and so is his dad and Javert and _Grantaire_. 

Apparently, the break in his voice and the desperation wins over Coach, because he shakes his hand.

“If you so much as stumble, I’m pulling you out of the game.” With a smile, Enjolras jogs out to join the team during warm up. He spares a glance at the stands; sure enough, there’s a clump of his friends, on the edge of which is Grantaire and Javert, his dad and grandparents are sitting a little bit more down, looking like they’ve just fought. Enjolras manages to lock eyes with Combeferre, who looks disappointed in Enjolras already. Angry, Enjolras kicks the ball sitting off to the side extra hard back to his team. 

Yes, his head is pounding and it feels like he’s floating but he’ll play this game if it kills him. 

 

Enjolras does fine until the asshole bodychecks him. Sure, he doesn’t have that great of a memory of what’s going on, but he thinks he’s assisted on the two goals, and Coach looks vaguely happy. The crowd is a blur of both sound and colors, and when Enjolras goes up for a header… he doesn’t expect the sideways force that feels like a truck to send him crashing to the ground. Like, the player isn’t even moving upward, and Enjolras rolls and tries to get up, to get the ball, to get back into the play, but the dizziness is overwhelming and he can’t breathe. For like five seconds. 

Eventually, he manages to pull himself off of the ground, with the help of Jehan and his teammates, as the yellow card had stopped the game, anyway. 

“You alright?” Enjolras just nods and gets ready to start play again, shaking his head and slowly working himself up to a jog. He can’t bring himself to look at Coach or the stands, because he knows what he’ll see. (Grantaire is holding his hair with his hands, Combeferre and Bahorel are whispering darkly, and Javert even manages a look of concern)

From there… it gets patchy. He gets roughed up more, and because his reactions are staring to slow down at an alarming rate, when people dive for the ball, Enjolras just falls over them instead of flicking the ball up and continuing as normal. It’s too hot, there’s a buzzing in his ears, and he’s so, so tired. 

“E, you can’t do this. You look like shit,” Jehan says as he passes, and Enjolras knows they all want him to leave. But he won’t. He’ll play until he collapses. 

The buzzing is mixing with the crowd, the blur that’s blending into everything else as it fades to black. But Enjolras blinks and tries to run, only stumbling. 

(His coach is already screaming at the second stringer to get into position so he can switch out and Enjolras can get off the damn field, but Enjolras’s eyes blindly look, and suddenly there’s a blur that becomes crystal clear. It’s Montparnasse, with a black eye and bleeding lip who looks like the world ended. When he sees Enjolras’s eye contact, he just shakes his head.)

He’s failed. 

That’s when the world comes rushing towards Enjolras, in a swarm of panic and tiredness that leaves him face down on the grass.

:: ::

It takes a supreme amount of effort for Enjolras to pry his eyelids apart, but when he does it’s to the faces of Joly and Dr. Combeferre. He tries to sit up, but the doctor’s hands stop him before he gets too far.

“Wh—“ he starts to croak, but is shushed.

“Just relax. Your grandparents are bringing their car around, and then they’re going to take you to get checked out at the hospital. You’re probably dehydrated and overtired, with some potential chemical imbalances, which caused the fainting episode,” the doctor explains. “Don’t worry about the game.” 

Shit. The game.

Immediately, he remembers that they’ve failed, that all the shit Enjolras has done this week means nothing, and he panics. There’s not enough air and he’s failed and Montparnasse might die for this and he’s fucked up again and his thoughts are too loud. They’re screaming while Enjolras suffocates.

Even though there are voices and hands trying to calm him, it’s only a murmur underneath the might of the screams. The black dots are back, and as hard as Dr. Combeferre and Joly try to tell him that it’s fine, that he needs to slow down his breathing, they don’t understand. They don’t know what’s going on and no one can and he is so, so fucked. 

For a minute, Enjolras thinks he can see Grantaire before he loses consciousness again.

:: ::

_“Hey, it’s okay, Adam. You’re okay.”_

Black. 

_”Come on, you’re safe. Calm down, please. Just go back to sleep.”_

Gramps?

But then he’s pulled under the black tide again.

_”You can do it. Just breathe. I… look, your grandpa just left to go sleep. You gotta calm down for me, E. Come on… okay, or just do that. That’s one option.”_

This time, the black lasts longer, once Enjolras recognizes Montparnasse’s hand in his.

:: ::

There’s not a clear moment that transitions Enjolras from drug-induced sleep to the panic he wakes up sobbing about. But he’s crying uncontrollably as the failure crushes his chest and crumples his ribcage into a pile of dust when someone wraps him into a hug.

“E, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Enjolras knows instantly that it’s Grantaire who’s holding him to his chest and feels so warm. Enjolras doesn’t know how long it takes, only that the rhythm of Grantaire’s fingers through Enjolras’s hair steadily grounds him until he can blink and see Grantaire; Grantaire’s hug lingers for a second until he gently lowers Enjolras back to the bed. 

Oh, Enjolras is in the hospital. 

“What happened?” Enjolras croaks, looking at the IV in the back of his right hand and tiredly brings his left to scrub the tears and sleep from his face. Even though he doesn’t want to admit it, he wants to go back to sleep again. His memories are patchy—he remembers the rattle of wheels and the inescapable panic and drifting in and out of consciousness and being carried by Bahorel, but those are just flashes. 

“Um, I’m pretty sure a doctor is coming, because you set off the heart monitor for about thirty seconds there, and they can probably—“ Sure enough, Grantaire is cut off by the entrance of Dr. Combeferre and Enjolras’s father. That’s when Enjolras remembers passing out at the game, and shame heats his cheeks as he focuses on keeping his eyes open. 

“Ah,” is all the doctor says when he sees Enjolras’s red eyes and lingering tear tracks. “I was worried that was going to happen. I’m not your attending—personal conflict—but she’s busy so I’ll explain. You passed out at the game due to exhaustion and dehydration, mostly, but your potassium levels were also off, probably due to lack of eating, and then you had a series of panic attacks. You had to be sedated, so if you’re feeling tired and vaguely hungover, it’s mostly that. Before you ask, we’re keeping you for one more night for observation purposes." 

“You had us worried,” Enjolras’s dad says, and Enjolras fiddles with the sheets. “And you’re going to have to explain what’s going on eventually.” 

“Not right now, though,” Grantaire jumps in, as he sees Enjolras withdraw more and more into himself. “You still look really tired.” 

“A few of your friends are here, though,” Enjolras’s father pushes, running a hand through his uncharacteristically messy hair. “They’ve been waiting quite a while to talk to you. It’s not just me you have to explain things to.” That’s when Enjolras’s hands start shaking. He doesn’t want to have to face this failure just yet, and not all at once. 

“Can I just go home?” Enjolras asks, his voice no less quiet or hoarse than it had been. His mouth feels like cotton and it takes way too much effort to bring his hand up to run a hand through his own hair. “Please?”

“We can’t let you do that, Enjolras, not until we’re sure you’re stable,” Dr. Combeferre says calmly. “Your doctor will explain more later, but just trust us on this. Do you want to see anyone else?” 

“Combeferre and Courfeyrac. And Montparnasse, if he’s hanging about,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire stands up to leave. Without thinking, Enjolras grabs his hand, and Grantaire just swallows hard as he looks at Enjolras before sitting back down. Then Enjolras looks at his own father, who just looks tired, but then he leaves the room with a nod. And Enjolras immediately relaxes. 

“I don’t want to do this,” Enjolras whispers, feeling more and more uneasy as he knows what approaches. 

“You don’t have to,” Grantaire says, squeezing Enjolras’s hand before leaning in to plant a kiss on his forehead. “But I can only guess that you’re feeling awful right now, and all of the explaining can come later.” 

“I owe them an apology. Combeferre and Courfeyrac… they’re the ones who got me out of this shit. And I just… I dove right back in,” Enjolras sighs, looking down as he hears the door creak open again. 

“And Montparnasse?” Grantaire asks, as Enjolras works himself into a sitting position to greet his friends. Without warning, Courfeyrac crushes Enjolras in a hug, his grip almost as hard as Grantaire’s had been; Enjolras feels Coufeyrac’s hair as he buries his face into Enjolras’s neck, and Enjolras finds himself shaking from the effort it’s taking not to start crying. And not just because of his bruised stomach. Then, slowly, Courfeyrac retreats and Combeferre takes his place. Combeferre’s grip isn’t loose, but it is relative to Courfeyrac, and Enjolras lets himself temporarily forget the situation as Combeferre’s familiar smell calms him. 

“What time even is it?” Enjolras asks, as Montparnasse ruffles his curls and perches himself protectively on the hospital bed by Enjolras’s feet. 

“It’s about two o’clock in the afternoon,” Combeferre answers easily, and Enjolras smiles a little. But then he remembers what he has to do, and it falls as he takes a preparatory breath. 

“I need to talk about the last two weeks,” Enjolras says, and feels Grantaire intertwine his hand in Enjolras’s while Montparnasse tenses. 

“You really don’t. You look like shit—“ Montparnasse starts, but Enjolras silences him with a look. 

“We have to do this, ‘Parnasse. And I need you to explain yesterday, because I don’t even know it completely.” After Combeferre and Courfeyrac nod, Enjolras takes a deep breath and starts.

By the time he’s run out of words to say he’s too busy crying to do much else. 

“I’m so sorry. I know I fucked up and disappointed you and so much more. I’m sorry,” he gets out, crying harder when Courfeyrac just envelops him in another hug, pulling Enjolras’s head into his chest. Combeferre is saying comforting words as he rubs Enjolras’s back. When he’s managed to calm down again, Combeferre takes both of Enjolras’s hands in his own.

“I’m not angry about all of that, anymore. I’m angrier at how you treated yourself. You should have told your Coach or your grandparents or someone long before it got to this point,” he says, and looks like he wants to continue, but Montparnasse clears his throat. 

“For what it’s worth, I’m done, too, or as much as I can be. I know I can’t afford to go down for what they’re getting into, and there’s no proof of me doing any of the shit I’ve done, anyway. So I’m hitching a train for Chicago and letting the Thernadiers burn. Oh, and I’m stealing their good weed.” It’s a huge confession, and Enjolras just stares at his friend with wonder.

“How? You’ve been dealing since middle school… They’ll kill you,” Enjolras says. 

“Yeah. That’s going to be a fun trick, but at least I have a fake I.D. from Claquesous.” 

“That’s not the reason,” Combeferre says shortly, glaring as he sees Montparnasse tense into “attack mode”. “You said nothing about it all of last night.”

“Watching your best friend have a series of panic attacks every time he came close to waking up puts things in perspective, believe it or not,” Montparnasse shoots back. “But you weren’t here for that, were you?” 

“Not my decision. Unlike some, I can’t just bribe the night nurses to let me stay overnight,” Combeferre says. “But do tell me more about how I’m a bad friend.”

“How about ditching Enjolras when you know what his fucking patterns are? You knew what would happen, but you still acted like a little bitch and look what happened.” Montparnasse’s voice is deadly cold, and Enjolras is too damn out of it to care that they’re talking about him in front of him.

“Nope. If you’re going to fight, go fight somewhere else,” Grantaire orders when Combeferre opens his mouth again, and immediately they both get up and leave. Unfortunately, that’s when a nurse and a doctor enter, the nurse with food that she gives to Enjolras before immediately going to mess with the IV. Courfeyrac and Graintaire shift back to let the doctor examine him. 

“Hello, Enjolras. I’m Dr. Worsley… I’ve been taking care of you. I just explained what is going to happen to your father, but I thought you’d appreciate hearing it from me.” Even though she is short and red-headed, Enjolras can already tell not to mess with her. 

“Hi,” Enjolras says, cursing the soft volume of his voice. “Can I go home?”

“I believe Dr. Combeferre already explained why we can’t advise that,” she says, before checking how Enjolras’s eyes are tracking and then checking the bruises on his stomach. “In an hour or so, another doctor is going to come to speak with you. There’s a pattern with your behavior, and it’s becoming increasingly dangerous.” 

“I’m fine,” Enjolras says, ignoring the food on the table. “I just need to go home.” 

“That’s not going to happen until you speak to the doctor, Adam,” Dr. Worsely explains, and Enjolras glances up to see that Courfeyrac and Grantaire had slipped out of the room. “Your father has already made the decision, in any case.” 

“Of course he has,” Enjolras mumbles, feeling the anger rise against the numbness. 

“All right. We’ll let you rest until the doctor comes,” the nurse says. “But you should at least try to eat.” 

“Can they come back? My friends?” Enjolras asks as start to leave. Smiling, the doctor turns around.

“Definitely. We’ll get them.”

:: ::

When Enjolras’s grandparents take him home the next day, he’s still tired and shaky, but he’s damn pleased to get out of the hospital. His father had left again, and Enjolras managed to get through without fighting with him again.

“Remember, you still have to take it easy, preferably where we can keep an eye on you,” Gramps says, ushering his grandson in to the house. 

“I might just go up to my room. Sleep some more,” Enjolras says, fidgeting with the hospital bracelet still on his wrist. 

“Really? You’d blow us off like that?” Enjolras’s head snaps up, and he sees that all of his friends are assembled into the den, already in movie night position. Immediately, he smiles, and takes the hand Grantaire extends without hesitation. 

The floor is a mess of blankets and sleeping bags, and Enjolras finds himself pulled in between Courfeyrac and Grantaire. 

“We’ll keep an eye on him,” Courfeyrac calls out, causing his grandmother to chuckle. 

“Don’t you guys have homework or something? It’s a Sunday afternoon,” Enjolras grumbles, even as Grantaire snakes his arms around him. 

“We’re all done. And a Harry Potter marathon is more important, anyway,” Jehan mumbles. “Coach says you’re not allowed to practice until next week, by the way.” 

“I don’t even want to know how much running I’m going to have to do,” Enjolras says, running a hand through his hair. 

“Not what he meant, E,” Combeferre says. “I’m pretty sure this is without punishment.” 

“Yeah,” Jehan immediately jumps in. “He just wants you back… for real.” 

“I’m pretty sure Enjolras is incapable of doing anything with less than 110% effort,” Grantaire snorts. “But are one of you assholes going to start the movie or what? Enjolras looks like he’s falling asleep already.” 

“I take offense to that. I’m really good at half-assing history,” Enjolras slurs more than anything, but is shushed by Courfeyrac. 

“I’m calling bullshit,” Bahorel calls out from where he’s working his way through a family sized bag of tortilla chips by himself. “And if there’s the one week soccer rule, then there’s a one week boxing rule, too.” 

“Have any of you heard from ‘Parnasse?” Enjolras asks, clinging onto consciousness even after Grantaire pulls him in closer and he just feels warm and safe and tired. 

“No, but that’s a good thing. Now shut up and sleep,” Combeferre says firmly, finally pressing play again. There’s a comfortable lull in conversation as they all watch Harry’s first introductions to the wizarding world.

“I’m glad you’re not mad anymore.” It’s so quietly spoken that no one’s sure if they heard it correctly, but they all can see the relaxed smile as Enjolras falls asleep again, more relaxed than he’s been in almost ten years. 

This, Combeferre thinks, is when Enjolras is actually free from the choices he made in middle school.

Finally.


End file.
